


Magnum Private Investigations

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hoechlin's Disney Prince Hair, Hoechlin's pornstache, I'm Sorry, M/M, Magnum P.I. AU, No Porn, Thin Veneer of Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone's peeping on the models of the Hawaiian Tropic photoshoot.  Derek and his team are hired to solve the case...</p><p>[Inspired by Hoechlin’s pornstache and new Disney Prince hair, the Magnum PI AU that approximately three people in fandom are old enough to get the references for. Derek is Magnum, Boyd is TC, Stiles is Rick, and Peter is Higgins.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnum Private Investigations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bashfyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bashfyl/gifts).



> December Fic Spree, Day 8: Gift for Bashfyl.
> 
> Happy December 8th!

When Derek looks up from his newspaper, there's a beautiful blonde standing in front of his desk, fists planted on her hips and glossy red lips curled into a sneer. "I heard you're the best PI on the islands," she says without preamble.

Derek slowly drags his feet off the corner of his desk and folds his paper into a neat rectangle, trying to decide how to answer that question. "Ma'am, Magnum Private Investigations has been a leader in the industry since we opened our doors. We're staffed by the best minds, each with a military background and--"

"But no one told me I'd be stepping into a bad Ron Jeremy porno." Her eyes flick over him, nose wrinkling. 

A bright laugh from the back room makes Derek wince and look around for somewhere to hide. Unfortunately, there's no where to hide from…

_Stiles._

The man's been a pain in his side since Derek arrested him for illegal moonshine production on his first tour of duty in Afghanistan. Stiles had been nineteen, a young, skinny Private with a reckless grin and stubborn refusal to obey commands. Derek is absolutely positive Stiles still has a hefty bank account somewhere harboring his ill-gotten gains.

But for all that Stiles often makes Derek question every single one of his life choices, he's -- grudgingly -- one of Derek's best friends and a good part of the reason Derek's business is doing so well. Not that Stiles is actually a _part_ of Derek's business. Oh, no; Stiles remained true to his "underbelly of society" ways and found a job as a manager of one of Hawaii's premiere clubs as soon as he hit the big island after his discharge. But he works technology like no one else and has ties to both the criminal element _and_ the police force that are invaluable.

However, all that aside, Derek really wishes a hole would open up in the floor and swallow the brat whole, especially when he enters the front office still hooting with hilarity, wiping his streaming eyes, and throwing an arm around the blonde, who narrows her own eyes at him menacingly. 

Stiles never was able to recognize lines that shouldn't be crossed.

"He does look like a ripped version of Ron Jeremy, doesn't he?! I've been telling him that for _weeks_ , but the idiot won't listen to me. Not that I don't love the unkempt look, boo," he says, turning to Derek and making kissy faces, which prompts Derek to throw his paper at the little moron. "But she's got you pegged. Cheesy seventies porn star." He holds his hands up, like he can see the words in lights, even if one of them is still hooked around Derek's customer.

Speaking of his customer… "Ignore my friend, ma'am. How can I help you?"

The blonde shrugs off Stiles' arm, baring her teeth and hissing until he meeps and stumbles backward. Turning once again to Derek, she flips her hair back over her shoulder and says, "I'm Erica Reyes."

The bell over the door tinkles merrily -- reminding Derek that he hadn't heard it do so when Erica entered -- and Boyd walks in. Derek waves him over before turning back to Erica. "I'm Derek Hale and this is Boyd, my partner."

Erica turns to look at Boyd and her haughty iciness melts away as she drags her eyes over every inch of Boyd -- to be fair, there's a lot for her to look at since he's managed to lose his shirt somewhere between surveilling the cheating businessman for the well-paying wife and getting back to the office. Her lips part on a sigh before curving up into a wicked-looking grin. "Hey, handsome."

Boyd just twitches an eyebrow at her, but Derek's known him long enough to read the interest in his dark eyes. "Miss."

"Call me Erica. We're going to be good friends." She sidles closer to Boyd, taking his arm in her hands and trailing them down until she's gripping his hand and shaking it smoothly. 

"Erm," Derek says, trying to bust up the moment before their new client decides to join Boyd in the shirtless display. "You never did say what brought you here, Miss Reyes."

Dropping Boyd's hand with a pout, Erica turns back to him, suddenly all business again. "I'm one of the models on the Hawaiian Tropic shoot. Myself and a few of the other girls on the team suspect that someone's spying on us."

"Spying?" Stiles asks, looking up from where he's been digging in Derek's files. Again. Goddammit.

Erica curls her lip at him again, but the steel in her expression has softened, like she's warming to Stiles against her will. Derek can empathize. "It's just a feeling, but we're _all_ feeling it. That kind of creeping sensation along the back of the neck… no one likes it. One of the models already bailed on the shoot, and we can't afford to lose any more. I don't care about the shoot so much, really, but I do care about protecting my friends' privacy. Whoever is doing this… whatever they're doing…" She shrugged. "I don't like it. And I don't want to wake up one day to see my snatch on primetime, you know?"

Derek nods, revolted at the idea that some peeping tom is out there, on _his_ island. "I completely understand. We'll be happy to get started, but there's some paperwork to do and--"

"And a retainer for your services. Yeah, yeah. Just let me know where to sign and how much you're charging me." She digs in her back pocket and whips out a black Am Ex that makes Derek's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. "My accountant doesn't like surprises."

Derek looks at her again, wonders if he should know who she is. But he takes her card and starts walking her through the paperwork, only a little awed when his five thousand dollar fee goes through without a blip.

\--

Stiles chews loudly beside him, curly fries hanging out of his gaping open mouth. Derek grimaces and reaches over the console, putting his fingers under Stiles' chin and lifting until he gets the hint and turns toward Derek, grinning an apology before making a show of chewing with his mouth closed.

"Okay, so I know you like your old-fashioned methods," Stiles finally says after he swallows. "But I still think it would be a good idea for you to get started on the background checks."

"They're pointless," Derek grunts, lifting his binoculars when he sees something moving through the shadows. 

Just a dog.

"Look, just because the Hawaiian Tropics staff vetted them doesn't mean we can't dig up more on the people behind the scenes. My dad--"

"Is a cop. I don't want to lose a lucrative case to police involvement. Not again."

Stiles scowls, crossing his arms and thumping back on his seat. Turning his head, he stares out the window for a long time, but even his silence is charged with energy. "Did you even look at the list I sent you?" he finally says, voice pissy as hell.

Derek brings the binoculars up again, for no reason other than to give him something to hide behind while he thinks of a way to admit he hasn't without lighting the fuse of Stiles' temper. "Boyd has it," he finally says. And it has the benefit of not being entirely untrue. Of course, Derek doesn't tell Stiles he gave it to Boyd because it had Erica's contact info.

The interior light flares bright, ruining Derek's night vision when Stiles shoves his door open and stumbles out of the car. Derek watches, stunned, as Stiles slams the door closed with such force that Derek worries for a minute about his window and then _Derek_ is getting out, his own temper riled now.

"What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem, _Sergeant Hale_ , begins and ends with you! You don't want my help? Fine. But don't be a goddamn idiot. When someone gives you information, jackass, the least you can fucking do is _look_ at it." With that snarled piece of advice, Stiles approaches a nearby cab and pulls open the back door, throwing himself inside. Derek just barely hears him growl, "King Kamehameha Club," before the cab's lightbar changes and it pulls smoothly away from the curb.

And, well. Fuck.

\--

"Where did you get this list?" Derek says into his phone three hours later after Stiles picks up with a rage-soaked, "What?"

The muted click of Stiles hanging up on him makes him bite back a muttered oath. He deserves that, he knows he does, but he needs Stiles to shelve the hurt feelings for a minute. Stabbing his phone with his finger, he puts it on speaker and waits for Stiles to pick up again.

Instead of Stiles, though, an obviously inebriated girl picks up, giggling. "Hello?"

"Hello, sorry. My friend's being an ass."

"OH EM GEE. That's exactly what he said about you!!" 

Derek can _hear_ the extra exclamation point in her tone, and he lowers his head to his desk, banging his forehead against it. "Put Stiles on, please."

"What's a Stiles?" he hears, but the end is faint and cut off, like the phone's been pulled away.

"Stiles?" he asks, hesitant. For all he knows, he could be talking to someone that just stole Stiles' phone.

"I'm here." 

Derek instantly feels like shit. The way Stiles' voice sounds, flat and dull, makes something clench in Derek's chest. But he can't take time to deal with that. Not right now.

"Where did you get this list? Stiles... _who_ did you get it from?"

There's a prolonged silence, filled only with the muted sounds of drunken tourists in the background. Finally, a breath breaks over the line and Stiles says, "You know who. Why do you even bother asking?"

"Stiles, I can't have you getting closer to Argent. Not... not for this."

"I manage his fucking club, Derek. I know you like to pretend I'm just a glorified bartender, but I see Chris _every day_ \--"

"He's dangerous, Stiles!"

"Oh please. Give me some credit, here. I've been working with the man for five years. He was the only one who'd hire me after--"

"Bullshit! I offered you--"

Stiles' snort of disdain is so prolonged, Derek actually wonders if he hurt himself. "Whatever. The point is, for all his threats, I've never seen him kill anyone."

"Did you ever think maybe that's because your Dad's the chief of police?" Then, because they're getting off subject, Derek wrestles it back on track. "Besides. Kate's his sister. There's got to be a reason he gave you this."

"He hates her." The background noise cuts off abruptly; Stiles is obviously in his office. "You see the other name?"

"Yeah."

"I think he's worried about Kate being so close to her."

"What?" Derek scoffs. "He's worried about _her_ being a bad influence?"

"Look. Say what you want," and Stiles is sounding pissy again, "but he gave me that list knowing I'd bring it to you. That's gotta mean something."

Derek grunts, as close as he'll come to admitting Stiles is right. Then, with a sigh, he says, "Let him know I'll do my best to keep Allison out of whatever this is."

\--

Boyd drops five tiny cameras onto his desk, stepping back with a grunt, thickly muscled arms crossing over his chest. "They were right."

"The set up?" Derek asks, poking one of the cameras with the tip of his pen.

"All digital transmissions. Got Danny Mahealani on it, but he says it's a dead signal. He'll have to wait for it to be activated by the perp before he can run a solid trace."

"And Erica Reyes?"

Boyd's smile blooms slow and wide. "There's a reason you gave me her number."

Derek flicks one of the cameras into a ziplock baggie and stands up. "Think you can give me a lift first?"

Boyd pulls a face but grabs his keys off his desk. "If I miss out on dinner with a supermodel..."

"It'll be because you crashed and burned, literally _or_ figuratively."

\--

Derek stares flatly up at his uncle from the ground, watching Boyd's helicopter shrink to a speck in the sky over Peter's shoulder. Derek's cheerful Hawaiian shirt is dirt streaked, grass stained, and covered in dog hair and slobber. "One day," he promises, "you're going to look up and these mutts will be falling two hundred feet to the rocks below the cliff."

Peter just smirks and snaps his fingers, running them through the thick fur that rings his pet wolves' necks when they return to his side. "You wouldn't dare harm the lads. After all. They're practically family. Come Zeus, Apollo!" And when he spins to walk away, all straight backed formality, the wolves fall to heel like collies.

Standing, Derek dusts himself off with a grumble of complaint before following. Because apparently he's not much better than a collie himself.

\--

"Why do you suspect Kate?" Peter asks sometime later, lifting his head from where he'd been bent over, examining the camera Derek brought through a jeweler's loupe.

At the ridiculousness of the question, Derek just lifts an eyebrow, incredulous.

Peter sighs, removing the loupe from his eye and rubbing at the creases it left behind. "I want to watch her writhe in exquisite suffering as much as anyone, but this?" Peter shakes his head. "It isn't her style. I'd wager half my money that the perpetrator is a man."

Derek bites his lip, hating to admit the logical, rational side of him agrees with Peter. But the part that still has nightmares three years after the car carrying his sister and parents exploded into a fireball that lit the night sky... For all that the evidence had been circumstantial, Derek knows Kate was responsible. And that part of him wants to watch her burn. 

For this or anything.

"Take a closer look at the photographers. Only someone who knows what they're doing would have chosen this model." Peter gently reseals the camera inside its plastic bag. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Maybe she'll be implicated as well."

Derek grabs the bag and shoves it in his pocket. "I'm taking one of the boats."

"By all means. Be sure to bring it back topped up in the event Mr.--"

"Masters pops in," Derek finishes for him, rolling his eyes. Like anyone believes Peter to be the manservant of some billionaire recluse. 

Knowing his uncle, Peter had built this story up to avoid paying taxes.

\--

After that, it goes quickly. Danny gets a lock on the signal as soon as it's plugged in to and traces it back to the computer of one of the photographers for the shoot. He manually takes over Daehler's computer long enough to snap a picture of the guy's confused face with his own webcam seconds before Danny attacks his hard drive with a remote virus.

It's easy. _Too_ easy.

\--

"Derek?" Stiles' voice wavers over the line as soon as the call connects. "Hey, remember your psycho ex--"

Stiles' voice goes silent with a crunching sound that has Derek bolting out of his bed.

"Hello, sweetie." Kate's voice is literally straight from Derek's worst nightmares, so he can't be blamed when his phone's case cracks in his hand.

"What do you want?"

"Haven't you heard, Derek? Some people just want to watch the world burn." Then Kate cackles, mimics the sound of an explosion, and hangs up.

\--

"What?" Kate says when Derek steps into the warehouse she's got Stiles tied up in. "What is that _thing_ on your face? Oh, sweetheart." Her voice drips with pity. "I really did a number on you, didn't I?"

"Shut the fuck up, Kate," Derek growls, advancing toward her. He goes in fast, wants all her attention on him.

But he doesn't count on the fact that she has _other_ hostages. Or that she has a knife. It flashes out, glinting in the spotty lighting, and slices a thin line across Stiles' stomach. The girls on the ground -- Derek recognizes Erica, so they must all be the models from the shoot -- start kicking up a fuss. Though, he notices, they don't look frightened. Just pissed off.

"What's this about, Kate?" he tries again, stopping where he is and holding his hands out, palm up, to show he's unarmed.

When Kate starts monologuing about how _no one_ breaks up with her, and proceeds to describe how she's going to take away everyone he loves, Derek is tempted to pat his pocket, where his phone is recording this entire conversation. But he can't be too happy, because he's also watching Stiles, eyes caught on the small beads of blood that are building up and dripping down from the cut across his stomach. It doesn't look too deep, honestly, but there's no telling what she might have laced her knife with first.

Derek is about to try rushing her again when one of the girls she's held hostage stands up and whips her arm out. Derek watches, eyes flaring wide, as a throwing knife blooms at the base of Kate's neck. The entire room goes silent but for Kate's gurgling until the girl stomps over, twists the knife back and forth, and rips it free.

"Seriously? Monologuing? It's like people don't read comic books any more. I can't believe we were related."

Kate's lips are still moving, blood bubbling from them, but the girl isn't paying her any attention, focus shifting to Stiles, who is making some dramatic sounds from behind his gag.. 

Derek steps forward, kicking _Kate's_ knife well out of her reach. He wouldn't be surprised if that wound in her neck just suddenly healed itself; Supernatural has taught him that demons don't die easy. And then he skirts around Kate's spasming body to go help untie Stiles, who looks like he's trying to hold a conversation with the girl who rescued him.

And no, Derek isn't a little bitter about that. 

But the girl sees Derek rushing forward and backs off, so maybe she's not so bad. Derek uses a knife he has hidden in his waistband to cut Stiles' arms free and then reaches up, easing the gag free of Stiles' mouth, which is red and puffy from how tightly it'd been tied.

"I fucking _told you_ Kate was-- _mmmph_ ," is as far as Stiles gets into the lecture he's obviously been planning because Derek's there, mouth slanting across his, desperation making his entire body shake. 

"Don't ever fucking scare me like that again," Derek breaks away to say, only to have Stiles slide his hands into Derek's hair and yank him back in by the over-long strands.

Stiles wastes no time in turning the kiss absolutely filthy, and he starts to press their hips together before he goes stiff and yanks his entire body away with a hiss. Derek sucks on Stiles' tongue for one more second before bringing the kiss to an end. Stiles needs to be looked over by paramedics, who are likely waiting outside while the Honolulu PD -- led by Stiles' dad and step brother -- storm the building. 

Keeping one arm wrapped around Stiles, Derek looks up to see that the building has been secured while he was otherwise occupied. The Chief and Scott are taking statements from the models, who are now untied -- though Derek notes that Scott is doing less statement taking and more staring in worshipful adoration at the model that saved Stiles -- and the rest of the police officers they brought are clearing the rest of the building. Derek guides Stiles to the Chief's side, so father and son can see each other, where he hands over his phone as evidence.

As he's guiding Stiles from the building, a borrowed shock blanket thrown over Stiles' shoulders -- "Jesus, Derek, it's like eighty five out, I don't need a _blanket_ ," -- Stiles turns toward him. "Okay, so I have two things to say."

Derek nods. It does not, in any way, shock him that Stiles wants to talk.

"First, _oh my god, really_? We're going to be that cliche? Waiting until I'm in danger to make a move? Ugh, you are so lucky you're pretty, I swear to Netflix."

"Pretty? I thought you said I looked like Ron Jeremy."

"I said you looked like a _ripped_ Ron Jeremy. And stop changing the subject. You owe me _so much_. All the dates, dude. All of them."

Derek leans down to nuzzle against Stiles' neck _because he can_ , making affirmative noises as Stiles lists off demands.

"Also, you're not allowed to shave."  
Derek lifts his head at that, eyes wide. "What? I thought you hated--"

"I've changed my mind. It, um. it feels good. I want to feel it on, you know, other places." Stiles is fucking adorable when he blushes.

"Those are your two things?" Derek asks, blinking.

"No, that was all part and parcel of one thing. The second thing is this--" Stiles is cut off by a paramedic who rushes toward them as soon as they're clear of the police tape barrier that's been set up. 

It takes long minutes before Derek can get close enough to finish their discussion, but by then Stiles has bandages slapped to his stomach and his wrists look like they've been treated with salve. Stiles pushes the paramedic away then, much to the man's eye-rolling displeasure, and crooks his finger at Derek.

"The second thing!" Stiles says when Derek gets close enough. "It's been bugging me this whole time."

"What's that?"

"All of the models were still in their bikinis from the photo shoot, right?"

Derek blinks, having no idea where Stiles is going with this. Though, to be honest, he hadn't really noticed what the girls had been wearing, too focused on Stiles' safety to pay attention to theirs. "Sure," he allows.

"Then," Stiles hisses, looking around before leaning closer and whispering, " _where was Allison hiding that knife?_ "


End file.
